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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23221084">hello, sweetheart</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton'>Areiton</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>rewriting time [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>First Kiss, James "Rhodey" Rhodes &amp; Tony Stark Friendship, James "Rhodey" Rhodes is a Good Bro, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Pre-Canon, Protective James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Protective Steve Rogers, Time Travel, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:14:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,769</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23221084</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been two years and he can still remember the sky for miles eyes, the soft sadness of his smile.<br/>“You,” Tony says, soft, and none of the bitterness he feels.<br/>“Hello, sweetheart,” he smiles</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Rhodey" Rhodes &amp; Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>rewriting time [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2279927</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>450</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>hello, sweetheart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He is seventeen and there’s a blond giant sitting outside his lecture hall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later, Tony will realize this isn’t new, that the man has been sitting outside his lecture hall for days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, there is a breath of disorientation, of recognition, of aching familiarity and he walks toward him, plans to meet Rhodey forgotten. Because for now, there is a blond giant sitting outside his lecture hall, and he’s sketching, a building so fantastical it makes something in Tony clench and ache, a longing he doesn’t understand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi, you,” he says, and that big head lifts, and sky for miles blue smiles back at him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is five and crying, and a blond man kneels in front of him. He shouldn’t talk to the man, he knows he shouldn’t--knows that strangers are dangerous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But strangers took him, stole him from Jarvis and Mama and Ana. Strangers with rough hands and dirty smelly clothes and words in a language he doesn’t understand, strangers who </span>
  <em>
    <span>scare</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His stomach hurts and his feet hurt, and he’s got blood on his knees that makes his lips tremble, and he just wants to go </span>
  <em>
    <span>home. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The building behind him is smoking, an electric fire going up too fast and he is </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he wants </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mama, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and to forget the mean strangers and the way the wires burnt his fingers while he set them to spark a fire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s five and crying, and a blond man kneels in front of him, and says, “Hey, sweetheart. It’s ok. Don’t cry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony’s shoulders tremble and a big hand envelops his, and the giant says, “Let’s get you home, sweetheart.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is twenty-one and wearing a suit so similar to the one he wore to the funeral it makes him want to puke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands shake, and he wants to bolt, wants to hide in his garage, and pretend this day isn’t here, won’t ever come. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Large coffee, black, with three shots of espresso,” the barista calls, and he shifts, straightening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A blond man is standing by the counter, and his chest tightens, tightens, tightens. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> that man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been two years and he can still remember the sky for miles eyes, the soft sadness of his smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You,” he says, soft, and none of the bitterness he feels. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s raging, a screaming storm in his belly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, sweetheart,” He smiles, a familiar quirk of full lips and passes the coffee to Tony. “You’ll be late,” he reminds Tony gently, steers him out of the coffeeshop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Happy is waiting, eyes curious and bright. Tony pauses, once, staring at him. “Where are you going?” he asks, again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His lips tip into a smile, and shakes his head. “Knock ‘em dead, sweetheart,” he says instead, and Tony wants to ask--how do you know. Wants to ask--where do you go? He wants to ask a thousand things. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He keeps those questions trapped behind his teeth and slips into the car.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is thirteen and standing next to a stack of boxes. Jarvis is parking, and the entirety of MIT’s freshman class mills around him, noise and chaos, all of it older and just out of reach. He’s buffeted by bodies, brushing and careless, a piece of flotsam in the eddying current. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can barely </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathe</span>
  </em>
  <span> through the panic of it, through the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fear </span>
  </em>
  <span>pulsing like a heartbeat in his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes a noise, high and startled, when a hand comes down on his shoulder, twisting and--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You,” he breathes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me,” his Blond smiles, nodding agreeably. “You need a hand?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony makes a face, “Jarvis will help. You don’t--you don’t have to.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to,” he says placidly, and hefts two of the boxes. “Lead the way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony glances around, anxious, but Steve is standing there, patient and burdened, and he huffs, leading the way into the dorm. It’s barely controlled chaos, and he’s buffeted a three times before his giant reaches out, hooks him into his side, and takes the lead, clearing a path with his broad shoulders and heavy boxes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony huffs and follows meekly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dorm room is small. It smells of paint, the wall still slightly tacky with it, two beds shoved against the walls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not much,” Blond says and Tony shrugs. After almost a decade in and out of boarding schools, it’s not horrible, either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And--it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>his. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opened behind them, and they both turned to look at a skinny black kid in an Air Force t-shirt and a bland smile. His gaze tracks over them both and then narrows on Tony. “Tony Stark?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods shyly and the kid grins at him. “I’m James Rhodes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind him, his Blond makes a small, choked noise, and Tony wonders why, as he shakes his new roommates hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is nineteen and sober and alone. Rhodey is in a desert, being shot at as he flies across the sky and he promised to stay sober while he was gone, promised that he wouldn’t spiral without anyone here to catch him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He created an AI that makes DUM-E look primitive in his loneliness and stumbles out of his workshop after three weeks of napping on his couch and inventing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, sweetheart,” Steve says and Tony blinks at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, you,” he says, wondering if he’s dreaming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look like hell, Tony,” Steve says, and no, no, if he were dreaming Steve would be much nicer to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you here?” he asks, stupidly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve shrugs. “Thought I’d make you dinner.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does. Tony sits on the counter, and watches as Steve makes him grilled cheese and a pot of Mama Rhodes’ chicken noodle soup and when he’s eaten, Steve tucks him into the couch and puts on a movie, curling behind him and holding Tony against his broad, safe chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Tony says, drowsy and content, his spinning mind finally slowing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You aren’t alone, sweetheart,” Steve says, softly, and he twists, staring up at the man who has been a part of his life since he was a child, the man who has always comforted him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you take care of me?” Tony whispers, because he doesn’t really know </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything </span>
  </em>
  <span>about Steve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just shows up and vanishes and Tony never asks. Maybe because when he was young, it didn’t occur to him. Maybe because now that it has, he’s terrified of making Steve stop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to,” Steve answers, simply and Tony smiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He arches up and kisses Steve in the light of Sarah Connor being terrorized by a time traveling robot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tastes, Tony thinks, stupidly, like sunshine.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is thirty eight and Rhodey is impatient, heckling at his side, but there is all of Las Vegas sprawled before him, and--his steps hitch and Rhodey huffs. “This guy,” he mutters and Tony twists, grins at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This guy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve pushes off the column he’s leaning against, sky for miles blue sweeping over him. Tony is used to it, the way that Steve looks at him. And he’s not. He thinks he won’t ever be </span>
  <em>
    <span>truly </span>
  </em>
  <span>used to the way he watches Tony--familiar and proprietary and concerned, all at once. Like Tony is unspeakably precious and infinitely desirable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, you,” Tony murmurs and Steve smiles, sunshine bright. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, sweetheart,” he answers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rhodey huffs. “You good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll see you tomorrow, Rhodeybear,” Tony promises, without looking away from Steve, and his smile widens. They walk silent to his car, and there’s a moment, a brief moment when Christine Everhart approaches, but Steve is drawing him away and a pretty girl with too many questions will never be enough to keep his interest, not when Steve is at his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve is quiet on the drive, his fingers twisted with Tony’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong?” Tony asks, once. Steve’s fingers tighten on his, wordless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They curl together in one of the lounge chairs and stare up at the stars. Steve keeps a hand pressed to his heart, and his lips to Tony’s hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the morning, he disentangles himself from Steve, presses a kiss to his forehead, and leaves him sleeping there, sweet and young, in his bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He boards his plane, and Rhodey sits next to him as they fly to Afghanistan.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is forty and sitting in a nameless burger shack along the Pacific coast, when Steve drops across from him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s big and beautiful and he looks the same as he did when Tony was six and staring up at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, you,” he says, smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, sweetheart,” Steve answers and passes him a flat, shiny wrapped box, “Happy birthday.” Tony arches an eyebrow and opens it. His breath catches, staring at the framed sketch, his tower in all her sleek beauty towering over New York. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She isn’t finished yet,” he tells Steve. “And Pepper hasn’t shared any of the plans. How?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve smiles, and shrugs. Steals a french fry. “Is that really the question you want to ask?” he asks, innocently. Tony huffs and Steve grins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll look good in your office,” he says, and Tony doesn’t answer, because it will. He’s already decided it would. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You ever going to answer my questions?” Tony asks and Steve’s expression does something complicated, his gaze hungry and longing and sad, and it doesn’t make any </span>
  <em>
    <span>sense</span>
  </em>
  <span> because he’s here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s right </span>
  <em>
    <span>here,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he’s been Steve’s for so long he can’t remember what it’s like, to belong to someone else, and Steve is the one who leaves, who never stays--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallows hard, and looks away, blinking back tears. His heart feels tight and aching, a familiar pain that has nothing to do with the arc reactor. “Will you ever stay?” he asks, and hates himself for the longing in his voice that he can’t temper, can’t contain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve reaches for his hand, squeezes it in his own. “Soon.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony looks at him, and Steve smiles sweetly, a contrast to the worry and sadness in his sky for miles eyes. “I promise, sweetheart.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is nineteen and the other mourners have all retreated, left him alone in the rain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks Rhodey is sitting in the car--after the past three days, he doesn’t really blame his best friend for refusing to go any further than that. There is mud and water staining his suit and dripping off his hair and into his mouth and it’s nice, because he can cry and no one will ever know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you mind if I join you, sweetheart?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t look up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t need to look to know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you might come,” he says instead, and Steve settles next to him. He’s wearing a suit, and Tony eyes it briefly before his gaze goes back to the gaping hole. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There should be three. His parents and the man who raised him, all lined up in a row. Jarvis is being sent back to England, though, to be buried with Ana. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hated him,” Tony says, tightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Steve says, quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate</span>
  </em>
  <span> him,” Tony snarls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Him dyin’ doesn’t mean he hasn’t spent nineteen years hurtin’ you, sweetheart,” Steve says, gently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony inhales a sob hitching in his throat. “I miss him,” he admits, and Steve makes a quiet noise and pulls Tony close to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He breaks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He breaks in a way that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, with Rhodey, a lifetime of soft hands and gentle words from </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>man wrapping around him, cocooning him in safety and Steve’s scent mixed with mud and rain, and he sobs, great big shattering things, while the rain falls steady and Steve holds him together. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is eight and carrying handfuls of bent metal and rubber treads to the road. His hands hurt, and his face throbs, and none of it hurts as much as Howard--Howard, not Dad, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span> Dad again--dismissive disregard, or the way he took a wrench to the bot, mangling and destroying it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d backhanded Tony during his drunken fury, a blow that left him dazed and a bruise rising on his cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jarvis would be upset if he knew that Tony had snuck out to shove the remains of his first bot into their trash. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He says that too many people want to hurt him, would use him to get to Howard. At the moment, Tony doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>care. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be taken. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits on the grass next to the remains of his bot, his bloody hands clenched in the grass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They'll get infected," someone says and Tony blinks up, up, up. The man is backlit by the setting sun and faintly familiar and Tony makes a curious, broken noise before he stoops and catches Tony's hands in his big, gentle grip. He is all blond and </span>
  <em>
    <span>big</span>
  </em>
  <span> and his smile is sweet and safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Lemme clean 'em up?" he asks, and no one ever</span>
  <em>
    <span> asks. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Even Jarvis tells him, kind and patient but orders, nonetheless. This. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is patient and waiting, and Tony is breathless with it, and the smile his big blond savior gives him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cleans Tony's hands with splashes of water and the soft flannel of his shirt and eyes the pile of metal scraps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What happened?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony considers lying. He grew up lying to strangers and the media, preserving the name of the family and the company, an iron strong facade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His face </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts </span>
  </em>
  <span>and his blood is on a stranger's hands and his bot, his </span>
  <em>
    <span>creation </span>
  </em>
  <span>is lying shattered in the trash. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Howard happened," he says. It's strange, what that sentence does to his savior's face. The way it makes him go pale and then fury, like a storm clouds, darkens his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> did this?” he asks, choked. “Sweetheart.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A door behind them opens, and Tony--Tony jerks his hands free of his savior and darts away, confusion and that word, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sweetheart</span>
  </em>
  <span> ringing in his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s familiar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And from a stranger, a gentle giant blond man who looks at Tony like he is precious--it </span>
  <em>
    <span>shouldn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> be. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is twenty-three and sitting in a cafe, anonymous the way that only New York allowed. The barista keeps shooting curious looks at him, but the two hundred dollar tip he dropped in the jar is buying more than just the largest coffee she could come up with and the big blueberry muffin he’s picking at. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, sweetheart,” Steve says and Tony smiles into his coffee as he looks up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s still beautiful, still larger than life and brighter than sunshine, and smiling at Tony in a way he just doesn’t understand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, you,” he says, softly and Steve’s cheeks go pink, charming and sweet. “Why are you here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I missed you,” he says, simply, and Tony arches an eyebrow. It’s been two long years since he last saw Steve, and sometimes, he can convince himself that Steve, this never changing larger than life figure that smiles so softly at him, was just a fever dream, a figment of his imagination summoned by his lonely imagination. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moments like this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you working on?” Steve asks and Tony arches an eyebrow at him. Steve’s expression flickers. “I’m not Sunset,” he says, softly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A holoscreen. I want to be able to play with schematics in 3D.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve hums, thoughtful, and Tony waits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waits to be told he can’t do it. Waits for Steve to laugh, the way that Obie does. Waits to be told to build something that blows up because that’s what he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> at. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve reaches out and picks up his oversized coffee, drinking from the same place Tony had, lips closing over the edge of the cup where Tony’s had been. He watches, mouth dry and heart pounding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t wait to see it, sweetheart,” Steve says and Tony’s heart </span>
  <em>
    <span>tumbles. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is twelve and the graduation robe is too big and hot, and he crosses the stage in deathly silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d tried to say he didn’t want to attend graduation, tried to convince Mama to take him to Spain instead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Howard shut that down before the protest was fully formed--his son graduating high school valedictorian at age twelve was the best kind of publicity, and he made it a fucking spectacle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony takes his diploma with a smile that feels like a grimace, shakes the dean’s hand and proceeds down the stairs, under the heavy weight of his father’s gaze and a small army of the press, and two hundred fellow graduates, who </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate </span>
  </em>
  <span>him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s never felt as alone as he does, in this moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then someone whistles, a loud piercing thing that makes Tony’s head snap up as the same person cheers, a lone voice in a crowded theatre and--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Big and broad and hidden under a ballcap, but he recognizes the broad spread of his shoulders, would recognize them </span>
  <em>
    <span>anywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and Tony smiles, wide and toothy and pleased. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is thirty-two and laying in the sun, near naked, in a tiny pair of black panties, when a shadow falls over him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said you were gonna nap,” he mumbles, not bothering to move. Rhodey’s seen him in less, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>liked it.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He’s helped Tony shop for panties, and there was one very confused Christmas when he gave Tony panties that matched his own dress uniform. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Catching Tony in black silk was not even in the top hundred awkward moments. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, sweetheart.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony freezes, all sun warm sleepiness washed away by two words in a familiar deep voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, you,” he rasps, and Steve laughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay still, doll,” Steve says, easy as anything, and even though he’s aching to</span>
  <em>
    <span> see</span>
  </em>
  <span> him, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>drink him in</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he does as he’s told. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve’s hands are almost cool against his skin, slippery with coconut scented lotion, and Tony moans, helpless, when his thumbs dig in, hard, working his tight muscles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve hums in answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later, he won’t be able to say how long it lasts--it never lasts long enough--or when he drifts off to sleep. Later, he’ll think it’s a dream, Steve’s big hands wringing stress and pleasure from him like a limp rag, his voice a soothing murmur of praise poured out like sun-warmed oil, the fluttering wet heat of his mouth against Tony’s skin, pressing kisses into butter soft skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later he’ll wake, cock and panties sticky and uncomfortable and he’ll think it’s a dream, and Rhodey will stare at him, all distressed displeasure and it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> one of their top hundred awkward moments after all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later, he’ll stand in his bathroom and see the bite blooming, livid teeth mark and dark bruise, against his skin, and he’ll smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is six years old when Mama takes him to Disney World. Howard is in the Arctic, again, spending the summer months searching for Captain America and Mama drives him to Disney for the week of his birthday. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a child’s wonderland, a dizzy explosion of noise and lights, cheery music and twisting rides, and Mama laughing, her hair tied with a big red bow, her mouth a wide happy grin and he loves her, loves </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>, madly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He loves it and it’s fascinating, the twisting turning rides, the animatronics, and he wants to take them to pieces, wants to discover what makes them </span>
  <em>
    <span>work. </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He’s staring, wide eyed and entranced, waiting impatiently for his turn to ride It’s a Small World again when a blond man slides into the boat next to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you mind if I ride with you?” he asks, and Tony blinks up at the small mountain of a man. He reminds Tony, distantly, of the man Dad likes to talk about, the one he’s looking for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You,” Tony says, decisively, “Look like Captain America.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man startles a laugh, and Tony grins at him, as the ride begins. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is twenty-four and sitting in the corner of a busy hospital corridor, tucked into it so small that he can feel his heartbeat against his thighs and it’s not enough because he can still feel the world beating at him, can still feel the eyes of </span>
  <em>
    <span>people</span>
  </em>
  <span>, watching as they go by. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants, more than he ever has in his life, to be invisible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To be alone and unobserved in his grief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, sweetheart,” Steve says, and Tony almost, </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost</span>
  </em>
  <span> laughs. He isn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>surprised,</span>
  </em>
  <span> to see Steve, looming over him like a blond mountain, face earnest and sad. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve sighs, curling down into a boulder sized lump and tugs at Tony until he’s leaning against his shoulder, Tony’s tears pressed there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t ask, just sits quiet and Tony finally says, “I don’t worry, when he’s home. I worry all the time, when he’s over there, when he’s deployed. But when he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>home</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he’s supposed to be safe. He’s supposed to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>ok.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” He hiccups, guilt a hot shard in his gut. “I was so relieved he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>home</span>
  </em>
  <span> I didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>worry, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You worrying about him wouldn’t have stopped him from being in that accident, Tony,” Steve says, gently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the thing is--he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> Steve is right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It might have,” he says. “It might--I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> because I wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking</span>
  </em>
  <span> about him. He was home, he was supposed to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s crying again, big shaking sobs, and Steve is pulling him close, his voice a soothing rumble and Tony clings to him, to that comfort, and cries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve stays there, holding him, for hours. Until the doctors finally come and tell him--Rhodey is going to be ok. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is twenty nine and the world is spinning. The scotch is smooth on his tongue, the burn long since gone. It’s December sixteenth and his parents are dead, have been dead for ten long years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could go out, find someone to fuck. It’d probably help the itchy aching empty in his gut, the place that longs to be filled up with someone who loves him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>some</span>
  </em>
  <span>one. He lies to the entire world and never minds, not even a little bit. But he’s never been good at lying to himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t want the empty mindless sex of strangers, not today.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants </span>
  <em>
    <span>Rhodey, </span>
  </em>
  <span>strong and steady, solid enough to handle Tony crashing against him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants </span>
  <em>
    <span>Steve,</span>
  </em>
  <span> quiet and beautiful and looming in every corner of his life, a presence larger than life and older than his own memories. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants his Mama. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony swallows more of the Scotch and stares into the darkness spread over the Pacific ocean, achingly alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s drunk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Drunk enough that Jarvis is a distant voice he barely hears, drunk enough that his gaze is blurry and unfocused, when he peers through the darkness at the giant blond coming to crouch next to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You,” he says, tongue thick and clumsy </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is fifteen and Ty is smirking at Sunset. He’s got an arm around Tony, and Tony can feel Rhodey’s cold glare, the anger and disapproval that his best friend is emanating, but Ty is warm and grounding and his blood is pounding in his veins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks maybe the coke Ty gave him was laced with something. He doesn’t feel so great. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sunset is in his space, and he makes a startled noise when she kisses him, reels back a little but the arm around his waist tightens, pulls him back into her and his muffled protest is eaten away by her lips and tongue, her sharp teeth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ty’s hand is tight, bruising, on his hip. He wants to </span>
  <em>
    <span>scream. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“He doesn’t look like he’s having much fun,” a familiar voice says and it takes her attention, makes Ty’s hand loosen just a little. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s standing there, in a pair of painted on jeans and a white shirt that’s even tighter, an a dubious expression edged with fury. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You,” Tony mouths and sky for miles blue smiles at him, a quick flicker of acknowledgment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I know what my boyfriend wants,” Ty says, sharply and he blinks. Slow and placid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony swallows a hysterical giggle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You let your boyfriend get kissed like that by a whore who only wants his tech? That is what you were talking about, before you came in, isn’t it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony blinks and Sunset’s fingers dig into his shoulders, her expression so furious he wants to hide, for just a heartbeat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” she snarls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you know?” Tony asks, small and plaintive and Blond flinches, a look on his face like nothing Tony’s ever seen before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ty, though. Ty is staring at him, impatient and exasperated, and it’s strange because Rhodey looks at him like that all the time, but it’s never made him feel small and unsafe, never made him want to apologize. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rhodey looks at him with exasperated impatience mingled with rich fondness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tony,” Blond says and he makes a noise, small and hurt and he doesn’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>how,</span>
  </em>
  <span> doesn’t really know where Sunset and Ty have slithered away to, or why they aren’t protesting more. He only knows Rhodey is there, a warm familiar presence, and he’s being held against a broad chest that rumbles under his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for that, man.” Rhodey says. “Wasn’t real sure how to get him out of that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything for him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony thinks--it’s true. He means it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s your name, man?” Rhodey asks and the chest under his cheek shakes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Steve.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is forty two and the world is ending, and it’s not just because </span>
  <em>
    <span>Steve</span>
  </em>
  <span> is standing in front of him, beautiful and treating him like a stranger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is forty two and the man who has haunted his entire life is standing there, giving orders and how the actual fuck did he never put together his Steve with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Captain fucking America. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stark,” Rogers snaps, and oh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks the hurt away, arranges his face into something that resembles carefree control, smiles. “Capsicle.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is vindictive pleasure in the way that Steve flinches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is the same pleasure in needling him, picking at him until they’re in each other’s faces, and Steve is staring at him and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>look like a stranger, because Steve has never looked at him like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a moment, when they’re fighting to keep the helicarrier in the sky, when </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> Steve is at his back, working with him. There’s a moment, when </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>Steve tries to comfort him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They fight and it’s easy, easier than it should be--and it’s not enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flies a nuke into space, and Steve’s voice is tight and scared as he warns Tony off, protective and </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he wishes like hell they were alone, for this, that the entire team wasn’t listening in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flies the nuke into space, and plummets to the earth, and when he opens his eyes, sky for miles blue stares down at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs, and smiles. “Hey, you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve laughs and it sounds like a sob, “Hello, sweetheart.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is forty-three when Steve sits down across from him. “In the year 2023, the world is gonna change. And it won’t need Captain America. It won’t need Iron Man. So I came back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” Tony asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve’s been in New York for three days,  after his walkabout, and he came back with a very domestic ex-assassin in tow, sending SHIELD into a panic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he’s watching Tony with big familiar eyes and a hopeful smile, and he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>talking.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a lot I can’t tell you,” Steve says and maybe it would be harder to accept but this is a man who has shadowed every bit of his life, who looks exactly like he did when he was five and eight and twenty and thirty-two. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me why you came back,” Tony says, and his heart is beating too hard, a frantic thrum. His fingers itch to reach out and </span>
  <em>
    <span>touch</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve smiles, sweet and familiar. “I came back for you,” he says, easy as anything, and Tony thinks--maybe it is. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~*~ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is three days old, a tiny screaming version of who he will one day be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve stares down at him, at this little boy who will become the man he loves. He has waited so long--he has so long still to wait. But the events are in motion now--his other self safely in Peggy’s arms and Bucky is </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Tony--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe this time, he and Tony can get it right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The baby is quieting now, staring up at him with big beautiful eyes, and Steve smiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He whispers, “Hello, sweetheart.” </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
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